


sacrifices

by peachsneakers



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Bad Albus Dumbledore, Child Abuse, Dubious Morality, Gratuitous Use of Memory Charms, M/M, Non-Consensual Oral Sex, Oral Sex, Past Albus Dumbledore/Tom Riddle, Past Rape/Non-con, Pedophilia, Rape, Underage Rape/Non-con, self-justification
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-20
Updated: 2018-06-20
Packaged: 2019-05-25 17:22:48
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,508
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14981933
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/peachsneakers/pseuds/peachsneakers
Summary: For the greater good, sometimes sacrifices must be made.Albus knows this very well.





	sacrifices

**Author's Note:**

> Pay attention to the tags/warnings please.

He can feel the boy before he even gets to the gargoyle guarding the entrance, purported aimless meandering guaranteed to slip him closer and closer to the Headmaster's office. A breath of magic and the door opens up, the first year swallowed whole by the spiral staircase without knowing the password. It doesn't matter. Harry has no need to know it, not when he is so tightly entwined in Albus's clutches.

"Headmaster?"

The boy is shy, surprisingly tremulous for a Gryffindor. Bright green eyes peer up at him, through a messy dark fringe. It conceals the lightning bolt etched into his forehead, and Albus longs to brush it away, to trace the dark magic he knows boils beneath the surface. He refrains.

"Have a seat, Harry," Albus says with a genial smile. A fatherly smile. He proffers the tin of sweets as the boy clambers up into a plush visitor's chair. "Lemon drop?"

"Thank you, sir," Harry says, plucking a vivid yellow drop out and placing it in his mouth. The tip of his tongue darts out as he does so and Albus feels his robes start to become tight.  _Soon,_ he promises himself.

"How are you finding your classes, Harry?" Albus asks. The boy prattles on about this and that and Albus lets it all wash over him. It is a ritual that never grows old, this supposed first meeting that occurs again and again. But it's not time for Harry to know that yet, not time for that at all, so he bides his time, listening to Harry tiptoe around the fact he hates his Potions professor (Albus idly wonders if he could get Severus to enjoy this as well- but no, the man is too devoted to the ideal of Harry's mother, and while Albus's magic is great, he does not think that he can bend the mind of an accomplished Occlumens like Severus Snape).

An eleven-year-old child, on the other hand...

The boy was already broken, the first time Albus invited him up for a cup of tea. Albus could see that straight away in the hunch of the child's shoulders, the cringes and flinches away hastily suppressed when Albus moved too near or too quickly. It was the work of a moment to open Harry's mind and see what his supposed guardians have done with their charge.

It still angers Albus and he feels his hands twitch. He has to suppress the instinctive urge to grab his wand. It will frighten Harry, and it is not time for that, either. The Dursleys were supposed to mould his weapon and instead, they have casually splintered and cracked him.

It doesn't matter. Harry is still useful.

"Sorry, sir," the boy in question says, red staining his face and spreading across his cheekbones like a bird's wing. "I didn't mean to-"

"I don't mind at all," Albus says warmly, genial smile still firmly in place. "My dear boy, I am delighted to hear that you have taken so well to Hogwarts. It is my wish always, for all of my students to feel like the castle can be your home."

Harry smiles shyly, and Albus swallows. He longs to look down at that face, to thread his fingers through those messy tufts of dark hair and force himself down Harry's throat. He knows the boy can take it all by now. In the beginning, it was a slow process. He choked and gagged, long strands of spit coating his chin as he looked up at his tormentor with bloodshot eyes.

It was intoxicating then, but this is a new kind of pleasure, and Albus fully intends to enjoy it as much as possible.

"Erm-" Harry squirms in his seat, looking at the clock. "I should go, sir-"

"If you like," Albus says. "All for the greater good, eh?"

The boy sits rigid in his chair as the command phrase Albus has carefully inserted into his psyche takes hold. The weight of countless Memory Charms shatters and tears spill down Harry's cheeks, his fingers uselessly spasming toward the pocket in his robes that Albus knows contains his wand.

"I don't think so," Albus says, rising from his desk and tsk-ing beneath his breath, like he would to a recalcitrant child. "Come, my boy."

He pulls Harry out of the visitor's chair, surprised as always by just how  _light_ the boy is. As he leads him past Fawkes's perch, he hears a low, disgruntled trill. He ignores it. His pet doesn't understand the necessities of war. The wizarding world thinks there is peace, but he knows better. Voldemort will return and he- and Harry- will be ready.

As they enter Albus's bedchambers, Albus hears a broken whine slip free from the boy's throat. He spells away Harry's clothes, letting them fold neatly into the chair by the bed. Harry squawks, desperately trying to cover his nudity with his hands.

"Don't be shy," Albus says, greedily devouring the flat, hairless planes of the boy's chest with long, wrinkled fingers, pushing Harry's arms away so he can pinch and roll the boy's nipples. Another whine, but this one turns into a panting, helpless moan, and that delightful blush climbs up Harry's neck again, spreading out to his ears.

"See, you remember," Albus says in Harry's ear, brushing his nipples again just to hear that moan. "You like this, don't you? You can admit it, Harry. I won't tell a soul."

Tears leak from the corners of the boy's eyes again, the internal conflict visible in tortured green eyes. It only makes Albus harder beneath his robes until he finally divests himself of them, sending them to the same chair as Harry's. He presses himself closer, watching the panic rise in Harry's eyes when he realises he can feel Albus's cock against his leg, and the fact it is visibly throbbing.

He pushes Harry back until the edge of the bed hits the back of the boy's knees and he folds, boosted up onto the slick duvet by Albus's careful grasp. No matter how many times he does this, Albus still can't help but pause, drinking in the sight of the saviour of the wizarding world so sweetly pliant and helpless beneath him.

"Up, Harry," he directs, guiding the boy to sit on the edge, feet dangling over and soft (yet reluctantly beginning to twitch) cock tucked against his thighs. "Open up." He taps the boy's cheeks. Reluctantly, Harry's lips open. He is always reluctant at this stage, always puling and fearful and desperate to get away. Soon he will be desperate under Albus's weight, whimpering the Headmaster's name like his life depends on it. It puts Albus in mind of another half-blood boy whining and whimpering under the insistent prod of his cock inside him.

That boy has become the bane of wizarding society. This one will put it all to rights. Albus will ensure it.

For now, though, he feeds the weeping head of his dick between Harry's soft, pink lips, smearing the tears away from Lily's glass-green eyes with the pad of his thumb.

"Shhh," he croons, letting his hand thread through the boy's hair, cupping the back of Harry's head. "Just relax, my boy."

Harry still struggles, filaments of that Gryffindor-bright spirit coming through, until Albus tires of it and slams Harry's head down on himself, not stopping until the boy's nose is securely nestled in his wiry grey pubic hair.

"You know this is your own fault," he lectures in a soft, chiding tone. Harry chokes, his hands fluttering uselessly to either side, until Albus takes pity and backs off, letting the first year take desperate gulps of air. Tears and snot run down his face, a wholly unbecoming sight. Albus sighs, summoning a handkerchief and scrubbing it away with quick, impersonal strokes.

"Again?" He asks. Harry hesitates before finally, reluctantly nodding.

This time, it is better. (Not that Albus minds the first few minutes, breaking Harry to his will again.) Harry's tongue hesitantly laps at the salty fluid leaking from the tip, letting Albus guide the head back into the warm, wet cavern of Harry's mouth. He begins to thrust softly, almost gently, his hands fisting in Harry's bird's nest hair. The boy moans around Albus's cock and when he looks down,  _now_ he can see the delicate, bobbing hardness of Harry's own penis. He ignores it for the time being, more intent on his own pleasure. There will be time enough later. There always is. Even if he gets carried away now, he can always use a Time Turner. The first year will be missing no longer than a half hour and will toddle back to his dormitory none the wiser, save for a lingering soreness in his arse that he can always blame on Quidditch practice.

The thought is heady and Albus finds himself feeding more and more of his cock down the boy's throat, proud how Harry barely gags on it now.

"Good boy," he praises, and he can see the sparkle come up in Harry's eyes, the way Harry has started to bob his own head up and down the shaft. Now Albus scarcely has to do any of the work, rather letting the child in front of him set the pace.

In the beginning, he had to cast several protection spells, ensuring it impossible for Harry to bite him. In the beginning, Harry had spit at him, had cried, had yelled that he would never do those things-  _never_ -

He wonders if Harry remembers those words now as he eagerly sucks and slurps and swallows his wizened Headmaster's wrinkled, old cock, hands splayed on Albus's thighs for balance.

Alas- Albus is not as young as he once was and he reluctantly stops the boy before he allows himself to orgasm. His penis jerks in Harry's face, red and throbbing, and Harry looks almost disappointed when Albus orders him to stop.

"Lie down on your stomach, Harry," Albus orders. He sees another flutter of fear cross Harry's face, but the boy obeys willingly enough, sinking into the duvet. Albus summons the tin of lube he keeps in his bedside cabinet, kneeling between Harry's legs and forcing them apart.

"There we go," he murmurs. He could do this with a spell, but it is more intimate this way. Harry will remember the squelch of his Headmaster's fingers rotating him open far more than the impersonal slick feel of a spell. Although Albus has considered more than once lubing up his wand using that. It is too dangerous a proposition, however, so he contents himself with coating two fingers and spreading Harry's cheeks with both hands. Harry whimpers into the bedspread and Albus watches the desperate clenching of the boy's arsehole in fascination.

"Beautiful, my boy," he declares jovially, and rams both fingers in without ceremony. At the beginning of the year, this would have hurt dreadfully, but now it provokes only a breathy gasp, swallowed up by the bedcovers.

"Do you like that, Harry?" Albus asks, slowly scissoring his fingers. The boy is so deliciously tight, even after all this time, and it makes his neglected cock throb painfully.

"Y-yes, sir," Harry stammers out. His head is turned to the side, glasses still askew on his face, and Albus can see that his cheeks are flushed.

"What do you want, Harry?" Albus asks, his voice almost gentle. Harry knows the correct answer, but he still pauses, face reddening even brighter.

"I-" 

"Tell me, my boy," Albus commands as he slowly adds another finger. Harry whines, a desperate, needy sound that goes right to Albus's groin.

"Fuck me, Headmaster," Harry pleads. "Pro- Professor,  _please_ fuck me."

"As you wish, my boy," Albus says, beaming as he manipulates the boy up on his hands and knees. He slicks his cock up, lines it up with Harry's spasming arsehole, and slides in to the hilt.

Heaven. Sheer, unadulterated perfection as Albus begins to move, his hands a painful grip on the boy's hips, yanking him back.

"Tell me how you feel, boy," Albus pants.

"I- I love it, sir," Harry gasps out. Albus reaches around, feeling that the boy's small cock is painfully hard and leaking surprisingly copious amounts of pre-come. He uses it to slick his hand, jerking Harry off to the same rhythm he pounds the boy's arse. It is a feeling second to none as his balls tighten, as he roars his orgasm to the ceiling of his bedroom and feels Harry weakly spurt across his fingers. His cock slowly pulses inside Harry, filling him up, and he wishes he could leave it that way, leave him with the reminder of what his Headmaster has done.

"Up," he commands. Harry scrambles to the side of the bed, standing weakly at attention. His eyes are dazed, pupils blown wide. There are purple splotches of bruise scattered across his hip bones, the corner of his mouth is cracked and bloody, and semen slowly slides down the back of his leg. His own is smeared across his thighs, thin and watery.

Albus purses his lips.

"Well," he says. He takes out his wand, reluctantly spelling away the bruises, the cracked lips (he is sad to see the plumpness of the boy's bottom lip recede as well), and finally, he cleans the boy, inside and out. Harry winces at the sensation.

"I know, my boy," Albus says, soothing. "But it must be done."

Harry looks down at the floor, wrapping his arms around himself. Albus dresses the pair of them as slowly as he dares, keeping his own eye on the clock. He has to time this carefully.

"Come, Harry," he says, guiding the tiny first year back down to his office. "You know what happens now, I'm afraid."

Harry shakes his head, trembling like a leaf captured in a stiff breeze. Albus points his wand between the boy's eyes.

"It's for the greater good, Harry," he whispers. " _Obliviate._ "

He watches, waiting, as the boy's eyes glaze over. He nearly slumps to the floor, but Albus catches him, letting him fall into the same visitor's chair he had occupied previously.

"Sir?" Harry asks after a moment. He looks confused.

"I'm afraid you got a little wobbly there, Harry," Albus says. "Perhaps it's time for you to go to bed."

Harry nods, jerky, as he scrambles out of the chair.

"Y-yes, sir," he says. Albus guides him down to the gargoyle, watching the back of the boy's head recede until he turns the corner.

_If I keep this up, that boy's mind will crumble like a tower of cards,_ he thinks, ascending the staircase. He shrugs, settling back into his chair. The Headmaster's work is never done.

It isn't like it matters, after all. He sighs, adjusting his robes and ignoring his phoenix's angry look. The world needs the Boy Who Lived to defeat Voldemort.

What happens afterwards will remain only a coda for the history books.

_It's for the greater good,_ Albus reminds himself, and smiles.


End file.
